


Our Hour of Overthrow

by lowbudgetcyborg



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Community: hobbit_kink, D/s, Dominance/submission, Hair-pulling, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Size Difference, crying!Thorin, original character death, sub!Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowbudgetcyborg/pseuds/lowbudgetcyborg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin can only truly admit his fears and sorrows when he is with his human dom, but time moves more swiftly for Men than for Dwarves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Hour of Overthrow

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Hobbit Kink Meme [here](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/6263.html?thread=15548535#t15548535). I think I gave myself a majestic need for more crying!Thorin. I don't even know what this fandom is doing to me.
> 
> Title from "The Hymn of Breaking Strain" by Rudyard Kipling.
> 
> I don't have a beta reader, so concrit is very welcome.

Edhran was an old Man; his hair was white, his limbs shrunken, his skin wrinkled. His eyes-- oh, his eyes gleamed with the same insight and intelligence as ever. Looking into them, Thorin felt as if his friend was being consumed from within, as if his spirit was too strong for his flesh, instead of being ground down from without by the grist of time. Thorin knelt, naked, and looked up into Edhran's eyes as Danas, Edhran's son, placed the thick leather belt around Thorin's waist and buckled it behind. It was not a show of defiance, for Thorin would not pretend he did not want to be here, but a substitute for contact. Even a year ago Edhran would have fastened the belt, and the stout leather shackles that attached to it, himself. Now the strength of his hands was failing and had to be carefully rationed.

Danas' hands were not unfamiliar, and his touch was sure and gentle as he buckled the wrist and ankle cuffs just tightly enough and made sure the padding Thorin knelt on was smooth and comfortable. He had his father's skill at understanding people, along with his father's generosity and care, and Thorin felt secure with him, but...

It was _Edhran_ who, one summer evening in that grief-ridden year after Azanulbizar, wrestled Thorin to the cool, fragrant grass and covered the dwarf with his big body like a living blanket. “Thorin,” he had said, his voice calm and measured as ever, “They call you king now; they call you Oakenshield. I can see that those titles are more weighty than any tool or weapon you have carried. You have been a great friend and teacher to me, and such affection for you beats in my heart that I cannot turn away from your need. If you would set your burden aside for a moment I will help you, or tell me no and I will rise this instant.”

Thorin did not say no, though he struggled with himself for some minutes before he could say yes. Edhran had been an apprentice smith when they met, little more than a boy. He had always been wise beyond his years when it came to people, true, generous, and honorable; though back then he had been as clumsy and fire-shy as any other apprentice in the forge Thorin had been hired onto. The virtues Thorin saw in the boy that had made him share the skill that was now his greatest wealth were the same virtues he saw in the man, and so he turned his head to look at Edhran and said “I would set it down and rest, if that were possible.”

Edhran had wound his hand in Thorin's long hair and used that grip to press Thorin's forehead against the ground. “Do you smell that good earth?” After a long moment without response he said “Answer the question, my delver.”

“Yes,” Thorin replied, bewildered.

“This earth cares nothing for your crown, or your shield, or the names of your fathers. Before this earth you are nothing but a beating heart, a hungry mouth, and a set of restless feet. This earth holds all your dead without preference or prejudice, and will hold you no greater or lesser than any other.”

He tightened his grip on Thorin's hair until the pain in his scalp seemed to draw away some of the ache in his heart. “Do you hear me, Thorin?” 

Now, decades later, Thorin remembered how he had barely managed to whisper “I hear,” before tears had choked him. He remembered the curious sensation after the tears had passed as if he were both floating weightless and melding into the earth under Edhran at the same time. The sensation had persisted as Edhran helped him to stand, combed the grass out of his hair, and rinsed his face with cool water, caring for him as gently as a parent or a lover might. Thorin had slept soundly that night. The next day he felt, for the first time in months, that he could have it in him to be the king his people needed, that he was not just borrowing time until he broke under the strain.

Edhran ran his fingers through Thorin's hair, scratching sharply at his scalp and grounding him in the present. Edhran was seated before Thorin, and there was a table to his right that held bread, cheese, tea, and candles burning in glass lanterns. “When did you last eat, my delver?”

Thorin hesitated. He did not want to disappoint Edhran, but he would not lie. “This morning, Master Smith.” There had been many hours of walking between breakfast and Edhran's home, but Thorin had not wanted to delay his visit, even for lunch.

“That is not acceptable, my dear delver. You must take better care of the things I treasure.” He gestured to the ground directly in front of himself and Thorin shuffled forward on his knees until he was kneeling between Edhran's feet. Edhran touched Thorin's chin. “Open.” Thorin obediently opened his mouth and accepted the bite of bread and sliver of cheese Edhran placed on his tongue.

“Chew and swallow, not too fast. That is good cheese; I want to see you enjoy it.” Thorin knew it for an order and struggled to let his appreciation for the sharp, rich cheese and soft bread show on his face. These small, initial surrenders were usually the hardest. It felt like learning to swim, like learning to let the water hold him up. There was a moment, every time, where he had to trust that his own emotions would not drown him.

Edhran continued to hand-feed Thorin bread and cheese and sips of tea until he decided that it made up for missing lunch. Then he pet Thorin' s hair and body in long strokes, checking for recent injuries or old sore spots acting up. He requested that Danas come work the knots out of Thorin's shoulders and Thorin let his head fall forward, his hair covering his face. Thorin had known Danas since he was a baby, and loved him well (and Danas was actually a better masseuse than Edhran had ever been), yet Thorin wanted Edhran's hands. He wanted to have again what he had had in the past. He did not want to distress his Master Smith, who was so good to him, and, at the same time, he wanted to scream like a child and be comforted.

Edhran dug his fingernails into Thorin's scalp. Once he would have pulled Thorin's head up by the hair, but now his grip was not strong enough. “No hiding, my friend. You must show me.” Thorin raised his head stiffly.

“Ah,” Edhran sighed. “I think you are angry with me for growing old, and you are afraid that this might be the last time you can share this with me. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Master Smith.”

“But you know, my dear friend, that even when I was younger than Danas every time might have been the last time. This is not new. Youth is no guarantee of a great store of days ahead. There are no promises, and we go on anyway. You know this already, do you not?”

“I know.”

“Tell me. What is it you know?” Edhran had learned this teaching technique from Thorin, and used it with his own apprentices. _Tell me in your own words, show me that you understand_.

“I know that death does not care for youth or age. That disaster comes without herald. That all my love and all my anger can not save anyone. You are young as I count years. The Valar were cruel to give you all your strength and wisdom and make you a Man.”

Edhran's hands rested lightly on Thorin's hair, and he drew Thorin's head down to rest on his leg. “But if I were an elf you could not love me, and if I were a dwarf I must call you king. I think the Valar were wise to make me just as I am. “

Thorin inhaled the wool and smoke scent of Edhran's clothes. “I would love you even if you were an elf,” he declared.

A tremor passed through Edhran as he suppressed a laugh. “Such a bald lie does not become you, delver. Will you recant, or shall I punish you?”

Thorin drew in an anticipatory breath, and butted his cheek against Edhran's leg like a cat seeking attention. “I cannot imagine not loving you.”

Edhran nodded to himself and idly rubbed the nape of Thorin's neck. “Danas, if you would be so good as to bring the bench before me?”

Danas rose from his seat on his father's left and carried the deep bench he had been sitting on so that one end was near Edhran's right knee and and the other end crossed in front of him, angling away from his left knee.

“Thank you, son. Now undo the ankle cuffs, please.” Danas unbuckled Thorin's ankle cuffs and unfastened their chains from the ring on the belt Thorin wore. Then he helped Thorin to stand before taking a seat on the bench again, now facing Edhran.

“Thorin, go lay across Danas' lap,” Edhran ordered.

With his arms chained to the belt Thorin could only move them a few inches from his sides. He could do little more than fall in the right direction and allow Danas to catch him and arrange his limbs. Danas hauled Thorin securely onto his lap, belly down, and carefully gathered Thorin's hair away from his face before settling his head against the smooth wood of the bench. The bench was older than Danas, and Thorin remembered when Edhran had been strong enough to pick it up in one arm. Back then Thorin would have been laying on Edhran's legs, and Edhran would have had one hand pressed between Thorin's shoulder blades as the other dealt precise blows to his ass and thighs. Now Danas' left hand curled around Thorin's ribcage while with his right he landed loud, stinging swats. Edhran cupped his hands around Thorin's skull and counted the blows in his steady voice. The count would stop at fifteen, unless Thorin begged for more. By five his world shrank to Edhran, Danas, the pain in his skin, and the wood under his cheek.

After the last impact Danas unfastened the wrist shackle chains from Thorin's belt and slid down the bench toward Edhran, picking Thorin up and turning him on his side so that Thorin's head was pillowed on his thigh. Thorin drew his knees up to curl his body around Danas. Edhran gently tucked a blanket around him, careful to make sure his feet were covered, and Danas laid an arm on his shoulder and softly stroked his hair. As the world began to resume it's proper size Thorin realized he was crying and clutching Danas' tunic and Edhran's hand as though they were the only things that could save him from a great fall.

_-_-_-_-_-

It was some months before Thorin could visit with Edhran again. When he came the homestead, indeed the whole village, was celebrating the end of Danas' journeyman smith days and his becoming a master. Edhran had married late, Danas was the son of his old age, and the other elders of the village remembered the days when they had feared that all Edhran's knowledge would die with him. Danas already had a wife and daughter, which eased their minds considerably, though it seemed as if the whole town, besides Danas, his wife Kera, and his parents, would have preferred Kera to have a son. Thorin thought he would never get used to the way Men were disappointed by the birth of daughters.

Edhran's strength had waned since Thorin's last visit. He did little besides sit by the fire and bid everyone else to enjoy themselves. Whenever he rose from his chair Danas or Danas' mother Nalis were there to steady him. That night Thorin knelt by Edhran's chair and clasped his hands behind his back. Tears pricked his eyes and he let them fall. Edhran raised his hand and brushed a droplet from Thorin's face. “It is good that you show me this, my delver. You are a prisoner to the sorrows you keep secret.”

Thorin inhaled a shuddering breath. “My Master Smith. Please, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Sing to me. Sing me something that makes you think on things you usually prefer to ignore.”

So Thorin sang to him in Khuzdul, first Frerin's favorite song, then his mother's, then one he remembered Thror teaching him when he had been so young he did not know what gold sickness was. He kept his face upturned to the smoldering fire of Edhran's gaze until Edhran silenced him with a finger laid over his lips. Edhran gestured for Thorin to stand, then leaned over and touched his forehead to Thorin's before retiring to his bedchamber. Danas ordered Thorin to bank the fire in the main room and kneel by his side. He gathered Thorin's hair in his fist and had Thorin describe the formulation and properties of various alloys until the night seemed no longer full of ghosts.

_-_-_-_-_-

A few weeks later Thorin received word of Edhran's death. He went to the funeral and stood apart until Nalis caught him by the shoulder and made him stand between her and Danas. “This place is for family,” he started to protest.

She shook her head. “We all know he loved you longer than he loved me,” she said with tearful fondness. “You stand here.”

They all watched as Edhran's body was laid in the ground along with his favorite tools. Danas sent Nalis, Kera, and the baby home while he, his apprentices, and Thorin stayed to finish filling in the grave. Danas' tears fell freely as he worked, which seemed to intimidate the apprentice smiths into silent, awkward clumsiness. He caught the stricken looks on their faces and sighed. “Tears are nothing to be afraid of boys. Ah, go on. Mister Thorin and I will finish up here.” The boys scurried away, guilt and gratitude warring on their faces.

Danas and Thorin piled the earth over the grave, then outlined it with small boulders. When they were done Danas looked to make sure they were alone, and then hooked his leg around Thorin's and swept him to the ground. He covered the dwarf with his body like a warm, careful landslide and twisted his hand in Thorin's hair. Thorin dropped his forehead to the dirt.

“Do you smell this good earth?” Danas asked.

“Yes,” Thorin answered.

“Edhran is part of this earth now. This earth cares nothing about your crown, or your shield, or the names of your fathers. Before this earth you are nothing but a beating heart, a hungry mouth, and a set of restless feet. This earth holds your dead without preference or prejudice, and it will love you as it loves all things that live and die.”

Danas let his weight sink more heavily onto Thorin, pressing the length of Thorin's body into the dirt. “Do you hear me, delver?”

“I hear,” Thorin whispered, and wept.


End file.
